


On the Rocks

by D_f_m22



Series: Scary Murder Lady and the Flight Attendant [1]
Category: The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29583963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_f_m22/pseuds/D_f_m22
Summary: "I've worked a coach flight to Auckland with a worse hangover than this. I'll be fine."Miranda shook her head. "That's not something you should be proud of.""Please I don't need judgement from someone like you.""I've told you, this is just my job. It's what I do for a living.""I don't mean because of your job! I mean because...well because you're so fucking put together. I mean christ... You killed your boss today, you got shot and you're still wearing an immaculate cashmere sweater that you probably got from Milan or Paris and you look like you've just stepped out of a Vogue shoot. Meanwhile, all I had to do was go on the run with you and I couldn't make it through the afternoon without getting blackout drunk on vodka! I bet you've never been this drunk in your life.""My jumper's from Moscow," Miranda corrected. "And I've heard from my contact that Viktor isn't dead, just injured. I'm only a little bit shot. I've been shot before, this is nothing."Cassie laughed. "Oh well that makes it alright then," she said before letting out a small sob.
Relationships: Cassie Bowden/Miranda Croft
Series: Scary Murder Lady and the Flight Attendant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173494
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	On the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> The first in what I hope is a series on these two. 
> 
> I've just finished reading TFA and hoping to incorporate some of that into my writing. 
> 
> Feedback appreciated!

It was just after five p.m. when Miranda noticed Cassie begin to stir. The white hotel sheets that had been crisp and neat on arrival but were now a disordered bundle that cocooned the young blonde moved in lazy waves. Then, quietly at first but with added volume, a low groan emerged. 

Miranda recognised that groan. More than that, she remembered when she used to groan like that. All at once, the small noise conveyed so much- the physical pain of a hangover, the desperate attempt to recall drunken actions and then the shame when fragments of memories returned. Yes, it had been at least a decade (her night with Alex Sokolov not included), since she had drunk in the excesses that Cassie did but she still remembered those years of her life well. 

"There's some water and Advil on the bedside table," Miranda said. The way she said Advil felt strange, she imagined it was how Americans felt when they said plaster instead of bandaid."I assume you'll be needing some." 

Several seconds passed with no response from Cassie. Miranda wasn't sure whether she had gone back to sleep or was in some kind of embarrassment induced silence. Either way, it gave Miranda a chance to finish her black coffee while she considered her next move. 

Standing, she crossed the hotel room floor and sat on edge of the bed. She pulled the duvet back to reveal Cassie sprawled out on the mattress. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun that had probably looked cute on her when she was a sorority girl but now looked tragic. Miranda sighed at the sight of the younger woman, she realised that the sigh probably sounded harsh to the other a woman- she had, after all, nicknamed her the "murder lady"- but it was meant to have sounded motherly. A sigh of concern at the woman's immediate condition as well as a deeper concern for why she felt the need to drink so heavily. She knew from bitter experience that anyone that drank like that was drinking for a reason. 

Miranda reached out her hand and stroked a flyaway strand of Cassie's hair away. It was a tender action and reminded her of the first time she had been ordered by Viktor to kill someone with a family. She'd been in her early thirties and had just started to work more formally as a hired killer. Her career had started to change, there was less of the drug trafficking and feral killing that had shaped her early twenties and a more formalised modus operandi. Her target had been O'Meara, an infamous Belfast drug lord with links to gun-running operations between Northetn Ireland and Scotland. He was an opportunist rather than a terrorist; more interested in what he could gain than any greater political aim. He'd got caught playing both sides, as so many before him had. He'd crossed a senior IRA member when he'd tipped off the Metropolitan Police about a planned car bomb attack. Viktor had no particular interest in the Troubles, but he was interested in money- money that could come from the Russians, the Israelis or the Irish for all he cared. It just so happened that on this occasion the money had come from the IRA. The crossed IRA member had lots of money and so Viktor had lots of interest in him. So much interest that he had sent his newest favourite to get the job done. It had been easy; luring him in with the promise of a wee drink , suggesting that they went back to his for a nightcap, slipping a toxin into his brandy and then- just after he'd fallen into a deep sleep- she had slit his throat. She preferred to carry out an execution when they were asleep, it was less messy. Everything had gone to plan, she'd wiped down her knife and placed it in her leather handbag; ensuring that it nestled between her make-up bag and paperback book. It was only when she was about to leave the house that she had realised her error- O'Meara had not been the sole occupier of the house. Miranda couldn't remember whether she had noticed the framed picture of the young toddler first or heard the tired call for "daddy" echo down the hallway. Either way, on instinct and against everything she had been trained to do, she walked to the end of the hallway and stepped into the toddler's bedroom. It was everything her childhood room hadn't been- soft toys lined the bed, a doll's house stood in the far corner and a night light projected stars onto the ceiling. The room was safe and everything a child could want. Still, it couldn't protect the young girl from the evils of the world. Miranda had chosen not to dwell on the fact that she had brought evil into the toddler's world that night. Instead, she had approached the toddler's bed and sat down. The toddler- aged about three with raven curls- had stared at Miranda and asked again for her father. Miranda had pushed the girl's hair back and encouraged her to lay down. She'd told her it was very late and she needed to go back to sleep. The next morning, the toddler had told police she'd been visited by an angel. By the afternoon, the tabloids had labelled her the Angel of Death. By the evening, Viktor had warned her in no uncertain terms that there was no place for compassion in her job. Any further discretions would be met with severe consequences. 

For nearly twenty years, she had shown no compassion. Now, sat on the edge of Cassie's bed, she felt the same protective surge as she had for that young girl. Except it wasn't a young girl in front of her, it was a woman in her mid thirties. Miranda was also no longer Viktor's favourite; that title had gone first to a younger Libyan woman who had been killed on her first assignment in Berlin and now seemed to belong to Feliks, the Russian that was hot on their heels with a reputation for blood thirst and psychopathic tendencies. It was no wonder he was Viktor's new favourite. She had suspected even before he sent someone to kill her, that she had fallen out of favour with Viktor. She had, after all, gone against his orders and pocketed away contacts and resources to start up her own network. What had he expected when after nearly three decades as work colleagues, he continued to treat her like a novice? Miranda was many things, but a pushover was not one of them. The fallout with Viktor had been a long time coming; it was just a little more sudden now thanks to...well, thanks to the Flight Attendant. 

The Flight Attendant who had Miranda expressing compassion for the first time in two decades. She watched as Cassie curled in on herself, not acknowledging Miranda's move to push the hair back, as her fingernails with chipped red paint scratched against her arms. Instantly, Miranda knew what she was doing, she was trying to distract herself from the memory of her drunken behaviour. A scratch here, a pinch there. Punishment and distraction and the sheer desperation to be anywhere but inside her body. How often had Miranda been in exactly that position? There was the night in Prague after the killing of a Serbian diplomat, she'd got drunk on cheap vodka- there might have been cocaine too- in celebration of a job well done and ended up passed out on the stairs in her safe house. Cecillia- rather than Viktor- had been the one to find her thankfully. Whilst Cecilia had been judgemental as hell, she hadn't been brutal. Viktor had found her the time she'd drunkenly decided to sleep with the Poli Sci professor just after she had killed a physics professor at the same University who had been selling nuclear secrets to Pakistan. Viktor had been brutal then. It was a good thing she was good at her job, or the punishment would have been much more severe. Someone had been hired to kill the Poli Sci professor. Had that been the turning point to get her drinking under control? No. There hadn't been one event that changed Miranda's attitude towards drinking. Just like there probably wouldn't be one for Cassie- even one as traumatic as the Sokolov event. Instead, for Miranda, it had been the slow realisation that her impulsive personality coupled with a need to escape did not mix well with booze. Of course, she wasn't tee total now, but she also wasn't hungover in bed at five p.m.

The same could not be said for her getaway buddy. 

Another groan left Cassie. Miranda sighed but this time it was in annoyance. 

"Sit up and have some bloody water," Miranda said firmly. Her voice was tight and impatient and it seemed to be enough to remind Cassie that she was on the run with a woman who killed people for a living rather than waking up in Cancun with her girlfriends. 

Miranda watched as Cassie uncurled, eyes squinted as she searched for the water. 

"Here," Miranda said, thrusting the small glass of water into the other woman's hand. "Drink it and then take some advil. The prescribed amount, not how ever many you usually shovel down your throat." 

Cassie took quick gulps of water, some of the water escaping down dripping down the side of her chin. Miranda watched carefully as she placed two pills on her tongue and dry swaollowed. 

"Jeeze," Cassie whined. "Your bedside manner needs some work, Miranda." 

Miranda smirked at the woman, one eyebrow raised. "Right. People in my line of work are renowned for good bedside manners." 

"You were very charming when I first met you. And so was Buckley." 

"Feliks," Miranda corrected. She didn't comment on the fact that Cassie had called her charming and instead said, "we're going to need to move from here to a location my contact has found. We're being picked up at eleven tonight. Are you going to be up to it? We can't take any risks." 

"I've worked a coach flight to Auckland with a worse hangover than this. I'll be fine." 

Miranda shook her head. "That's not something you should be proud of." 

"Please I don't need judgement from someone like you." 

"I've told you, this is just my job. It's what I do for a living." 

"I don't mean because of your job! I mean because...well because you're so fucking put together. I mean christ... You killed your boss today, you got shot and you're still wearing an immaculate cashmere sweater that you probably got from Milan or Paris and you look like you've just stepped out of a Vogue shoot. Meanwhile, all I had to do was go on the run with you and I couldn't make it through the afternoon without getting blackout drunk on vodka! I bet you've never been this drunk in your life."

"My jumper's from Moscow," Miranda corrected. "And I've heard from my contact that Viktor isn't dead, just injured. I'm only a little bit shot. I've been shot before, this is nothing." 

Cassie laughed. "Oh well that makes it alright then," she said before letting out a small sob. 

Fuck it, Miranda thought as she made her way further up towards the bed so she was sat next to Cassie. Fuck it, Miranda thought as she found her arms wrapping around the younger woman, encouraging her to settle and rest against her. How long had it been since she'd embraced someone like this? She felt Cassie stiffen in her arms; a perfectly natural reaction when being embraced by someone with her reputation. But then, she didn't pull away, she settled against her chest. Miranda hadn't been expecting that- she'd expected resistance not compliance. Still, she wrapped her arms more tightly around the woman and guided them both down so they were laying flat on the bed. 

"Miranda?" Cassie questioned, uncertainly.

"Shh," she had replied. Indulgently, she had placed a kiss to the top of the blonde's head. How long had it been since she had kissed someone? "Of all the ridiculous notions you have of me, the idea that I've never been as drunk as you is the most ridiculous. We're more alike than you know." 

"Who are you Miranda? I mean who are you really?" 

"I'm Miranda, scary murder lady. Christ, how drunk were you?" Miranda teased, hoping to deflect Cassie. 

"Seriously," Cassie repeated as she stifled a yawn. "Will you tell me your story?" 

"Not today. Its not safe for either of us. You need to sleep. You've got four hours until we have to start getting ready." 

Cassie yawned and then settled against Miranda more firmly. 

"But you'll tell me one day?" She asked, persisting like a tired toddler. 

"Maybe one day."


End file.
